That One Special Gift
by Deklava
Summary: Sherlock wants to give John a special Christmas present: himself. But a problem needs fixing first, and only Mycroft can help. Rated M for Holmescest.
1. Chapter 1

Christmas Eve was rarely hectic in Mycroft's office, but this year was an exception. New operatives needed their security levels adjusted, the Soviet ambassador expected a diplomatic answer to an obnoxious letter, and Sherlock… well, where to start? This week alone he'd pulled the following stunts, all of which required his big brother's intervention:

**1.** Smuggled a disembodied hand from the morgue and dropped it in the parking lot, causing a woman to faint and hit her head.

**2.** Transferred an anthrax sample from its cracked container into a salt shaker at Angelo's, and forgot to steal the shaker afterward. Mycroft had to write a hefty cheque to pay for all the hastily confiscated items.

**3.** Hacked into the missile defense plans at RAF Fairford and accidentally downloaded them to a gaming server instead of his own laptop. Britain had been one enthusiastic gamer away from total annihilation.

At 2:00 p.m., Mycroft paused long enough to pour a shot of 20-year-old Dalwhinnie from the crystal bar set in the corner. He rarely drank before nightfall, but convinced himself that it was just Christmas cheer instead of fraternal despair that motivated him.

The intercom on his desk buzzed. "Sir, your brother is here," Anthea said.

Mycroft tensed. Sherlock almost never came directly to him like this. He usually sent John.

"Thank you, my dear. Send him in."

"Yes, sir."

The door opened a moment later. Mycroft turned away from the bar set, face a mask of polite surprise. The pretense vanished when he saw that his younger brother was on the verge of tears.

No one else would have perceived Sherlock's distress, with the possible exception of John. Standing in the doorway, his figure erect and hands buried in his pockets, he looked as composed and aloof as ever. But semi-hysteria flowed beneath the sombre surface, like a trapped current preparing to smash its way out. Mycroft could sense it.

"Sherlock." Mycroft frowned and gestured for him to close the door. "What is it?"

Instead of responding, the younger man went directly to the black leather sofa beneath the window and sat down. Mycroft waited, knowing from past experience that persistent questioning would backfire.

Finally, Sherlock spoke. "I went shopping for John's Christmas presents yesterday."

"Yes?"

"I got him everything he asked for. But there's one thing I know he really wants, and I'm afraid I can't deliver."

"I see. And you need my help getting it for him?"

Sherlock exhaled slowly. "Precisely."

"Well, of course." Mycroft approached and sat at the opposite end of the sofa. "What is it?"

"Me."


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft tensed. "I'm not sure I follow."

Under ordinary circumstances, Sherlock would have gleefully pounced on this admission and flogged his brother with it. ("_Not so perceptive this time, are you? Too many carbohydrates slowing you down?"_) But in this instance he merely looked defeated.

"John is attracted to me," he said slowly, eyes on the floor and voice flat. "And I am attracted to him."

"Yes, yes, it's obvious."

"It is?"

"Well, of course. The way you look at each other, the way he risks everything to keep you safe, how _content_ you've been since he came into your life. I'd say it's more than a case of attraction; you're in love."

"You're right," Sherlock said. "I never thought I'd say this about anyone, but I love him."

"That's a big step for you, brother."

"It is. And I have a problem that will ruin it."

"Problem?"

"Yes." The younger Holmes inhaled deeply. "It's rather personal."

"Go on."

"I'm trusting you, Mycroft. Perhaps for the first time ever." Panic flashed briefly in those pale eyes. "You can never mock me for it. Ever. Because if you do, I swear I'll tell Mummy about your pink-"

"Sherlock." Mycroft leaned forward and clasped his brother's hand. "I know we've had our –disagreements. But I would never intentionally hurt you."

Sherlock looked down at the fingers gripping his. They had not touched each other in any manner that might be described as loving or supportive for so long that he wasn't sure how to react. Finally he said, "It's sexual."

"You're a virgin, you mean."

"Yes, but that's not the problem." Colour faintly infused his cheeks. "Oh, hell, I'll just say it. I can get erect but I can't ejaculate."

Silence. If Sherlock had said he'd blown up the Tower of London or kidnapped the royal heir, Mycroft would have known what to say and do. The functionality of his younger brother's penis was entirely new territory, and one he did NOT want to set up camp in.

"John will take it the wrong way, and think he's not enough for me," Sherlock continued, voice rising in pitch. "He'll feel terrible, and I'll-" He got up and began to pace. "I can't lose him, I _can't_."

"Wait. Wait." Mycroft stood too and took him by the arms. "Sherlock, slow down. I think you're underestimating John's regard for you. If you're having problems of that nature, he'll understand. He's a doctor. He'll help you through it."

"Of course he will!" Sherlock snapped. "But I want to spare him that. I want this Christmas to be special for him, for _both_ of us. I'm ready to give myself to someone, and my problem won't let it happen."

Mycroft cleared his throat. The room was suddenly too warm, but he resisted the urge to loosen his collar. "I'm sure it can be fixed."

"Before tomorrow though?"

Sherlock looked so distressed that Mycroft swallowed his discomfort and gestured for the younger man to sit down again. When Sherlock obeyed, he said, "When's the last time you had an orgasm?"

"Maybe twenty years ago."

"What? When you were _fourteen_?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You know how I've always regarded the body. Transport."

"Good God."

"_Mycroft._"

"You mean you never wanked in all that time?" Mycroft glanced toward the closed door, for once relieved that his PA wasn't hovering in the background.

"No. I did try again last week, when I decided that John would be the one, but I just can't make myself come."

"What about wet dreams?"

Sherlock looked confused. "You mean nocturnal emissions?"

Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Trust his younger brother to know the scientific term. "Yes."

"I used to, but not anymore."

A memory pierced Mycroft's consciousness: he was sixteen, and pleasuring himself in bed while a porno magazine he'd stolen from a friend was open on the mattress beside him. Excited by the glossy photos and frustrated by a girlfriend who wouldn't let him past second base, he was coming all over his rapidly moving fist when nine-year-old Sherlock barged into the room, bored and seeking attention. There was no time to cover up, so his younger brother saw everything. Mycroft had shouted and thrown a pillow at him, and Sherlock ran back into the house, crying, "Mummy! Mycroft peed the bed!" The entire fiasco had mortified the elder Holmes at the time, but he'd soon forgotten it…until now.

_God, what if I'm the one who put Sherlock off sex?_

No, that was impossible. Sherlock had been nine back then, and just admitted that he'd been able to climax at fourteen. But an arid spell had followed, and now the younger Holmes was growing desperate.

"Sherlock, what do you think I can do for you?"

Sherlock flushed again, but his voice was steady. "I want you to show me how to properly get off."


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. "Show you?" he echoed.

"Yes, show me. Perhaps I'm doing it wrong. I was going to watch a video, but it's not the same as someone coaching me through it." His white hand snaked off of his lap and gripped Mycroft's knee. "It's an irregular request, I know, but I don't know who else to ask."

The elder Holmes exhaled and mopped his sweating face with his silk handkerchief. "Sherlock, that's, well, that's just not something brothers do in front of each other."

"You did it when I was nine."

"I didn't exactly send you an invite!"

Sherlock leaned in closer. "Please."

His younger brother looked so haunted and anxious that Mycroft didn't have the heart to scold or protest further. Instead, his mind detached, as it had been conditioned to do when under severe duress of any kind: Mummy's concerns about his weight, whips and clubs applied to his body by professional interrogators, Sherlock's request for a wanking lesson. He inhaled through his nose, processed the smells- leather, cologne, sweat- and searched his own hard drive of a brain for data.

_Male inability to ejaculate…. Searching…._

_Going through archive from MI6 days… _

_Locate folder titled Profiling Human Sexuality_

_Result found._

_Anorgasmic Anejaculation – inability to reach orgasm while awake, either via masturbation or intercourse. Nocturnal emissions may still occur. Sometimes due to psychological inhibitions. Some subjects merely require a high amount of stimulation before they can climax and do not get this stimulation during intercourse or masturbation._

"Here." Sherlock shrugged his coat off and unfastened his trousers. Then he slid his belt through the loops and tossed it to the Persian carpet. "I'll show you how I do it. Watch."

Mycroft's eyes snapped open.

_Oh, dear God. If Mummy calls right now to wish a Merry Christmas, the insanity will be complete._

Sherlock lifted his arse off the leather sofa long enough to slide his dark trousers and boxers down to his knees. He was half-hard already: his impressive length bobbed as he shifted and leaned back against the cushions. Closing his eyes and running his tongue quickly over his dry lips, Sherlock began to stroke himself from root to tip.

During the thickening silence that ensued, Mycroft watched and Sherlock demonstrated. At first there were no sounds except the glide of palm against slick flesh. Then the younger man began to moan faintly. His slim white hips rose to fuck his fist more forcefully. Precum first appeared as a tiny bead at the tip of his cockhead, but was soon trickling steadily out.

"Talk to me, Sherlock," Mycroft said hoarsely. His own cock was swelling in his expensive trousers. He'd never been, and was sure he still wasn't, attracted to his own brother, but the sight and smell of a fully aroused male sent the blood rushing to his own nether region. "Tell me what you're thinking of."

"John," Sherlock choked. "His face. His eyes. His body. I want it pressing against me, fucking me into his mattress, making my body and my entire soul his alone…."

Mycroft shifted closer. "What's he doing to you right now?"

Sherlock's closed lids flickered. "He's stroking me. Feels so fucking good, brother." His bare arse creaked noisily on the leather seat.

"Oh, God," Mycroft whispered. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, shrugged it off, and loosened his tie. His cock was now pushing aggressively against his zip, but he planted his hands firmly on his knees, determined not to lose control. It was difficult though. Sherlock looked so beautiful when aroused. His pale cheeks flushed, his soft pink lips parted, and his rich dark curls glided over the leather cushions….

"Ohhhh," Sherlock moaned. His other hand descended to his balls, which he cupped and fondled. His thighs widened. "Almost there. Almost… maybe this is working…."

His stroking became more frantic and his eyes opened, their gaze fixed firmly on the hand-painted ceiling mural. He rolled his head from side to side and increased the ferocity of his hand movements.

It was then that Mycroft noticed a change. Sherlock's blissed-out expression became taut with desperation and he arched his back so tightly that bones and muscles creaked in protest. Then he roared, a ripping sound loaded with disappointment and fury, and collapsed against the cushions again. He let go of his still-rigid prick and hid his face in his hands.

Mycroft leaned forward. "Sherlock ?"

"I can't come," Sherlock hissed. "I thought maybe with someone watching I could finally do it, but I CAN'T."

One of his hands formed a fist and punched his trembling thighs, leaving a red mark that would bruise later. The pain made him hiss, and he poised for another blow, clearly intent on punishing himself further. Mycroft reached forward and caught him by the wrist.

"You're not defective, but you do need help, little brother," he said huskily. "Take off your clothes and lie down. I'm going to fix this."


	4. Chapter 4

While Sherlock rose and stripped, tossing his clothing everywhere in his haste, Mycroft fetched a red blanket from under the sofa- a relic from the days when he used to burn the midnight oil- and laid it out on the leather surface. His movements were calm, but conflicting thoughts and impulses assailed his normally steady mind.

_This is wrong._

_No. Helping Sherlock is never wrong._

_John should be the one doing this._

_No. John may be a doctor, but he's not a Holmes. He could never 'see' Sherlock as I do. And besides, Sherlock won't be intimate with him until this issue is overcome. _

_It's all down to me._

Sherlock, now naked, stretched out on the sofa. His pale flesh looked even whiter against the blood-red blanket, and his cock, still hard, bobbed heavily against his flat belly.

"My, please," he murmured, using a long-abandoned nickname for his older brother. "Show me how to feel good."

"I will. Now close your eyes."

Sherlock nodded and visibly relaxed. _No matter how much he claims to hate me_, Mycroft thought as he removed his platinum cufflinks and rolled his sleeves up, _he always comes to me when he's in distress. That's as good as a declaration of love._

He knelt on the carpet. Sherlock extended one unsteady hand when Mycroft's warm palm landed on his belly, close to his straining cock without touching it. Their fingers linked and squeezed tightly in both reassurance and promise.

"You're beautiful, Sherlock." Mycroft caressed the soft skin of his brother's chest and belly with one hand while maintaining their handclasp with the other. "John Watson is a lucky man."

"I'm lucky to have him."

Mycroft gently broke their hold. "Now lay your hands at your sides. No touching yourself or me until I tell you differently."

His brother's breath hitched and he nodded. His long fingers clutched the blanket convulsively.

"We're going to try a few things, see what works for you. There's more to erotic stimulation than wanking."

"There is?"

Sherlock's genuine surprise made Mycroft's heart clench. The younger man was a former junkie and seasoned consulting detective who knew a hundred different ways to abuse his body, but nothing to pleasure it.

"Yes. There is."

Yielding to arousal, Mycroft bent forward, parted Sherlock's lips with his own, and slowly, smoothly, slid his tongue inside. He cradled his brother's head as they kissed, loving the feel of the silky curls against his fingers. (_No one's ever touched him like this before!_) When he unconsciously tightened his grip on Sherlock's hair, his brother's stomach muscles clenched beneath his other hand. Sherlock also moaned and shifted his hips.

_Enjoys having his hair pulled. Submissive tendencies?_

Mycroft broke their kiss and pulled Sherlock's head back, exposing his pale throat. When the elder Holmes nipped that tender flesh, Sherlock licked his kiss-swollen lips and choked, "Oh, God, yes. Please, My, bite harder. Please."

Mycroft relinquished his hold. "Can't. John would see it."

Sherlock whimpered.

"Shhhh." Mycroft slid his hand down Sherlock's belly and wrapped his fingers around the younger man's erection. It was painfully hard and leaking copiously. "I think you may have a submission kink, little brother."

"I- I don't know."

Mycroft stroked him once from base to tip, twisting his wrist on the upstroke the way he enjoyed doing to himself. Sherlock squirmed, but his body didn't tense like it did during the biting and hair-pulling.

_Definitely not vanilla then. Needs rough physical stimulation._

"Hmmm.". Mycroft released his brother, ignoring the disappointed whimper that resulted, and stood. His own cock throbbed for attention, and his legs trembled. He hoped Sherlock wouldn't notice. "Roll over."

Sherlock complied eagerly. After sliding a cushion under his hips, elevating his tight arse, Mycroft went over to his desk, and opened the bottom left drawer.

For security reasons, he never took his casual fucks home, and those were the only kind he had time or inclination for. An American-born call girl he frequently hired once called the ornate office an "undercover fuck pad", and the description fit. He even had a drawer loaded with condoms, lube, and various toys that covered his entire mood spectrum. Mycroft was inclined to be dominant, but sometimes the handcuffs, ball gag, paddle, and cock ring were just what he needed when his hyper-stimulated mind required an enforced silence.

Mycroft had never dreamed that he'd one day hunt through his collection for something to use on his own brother. Swallowing heavily, he took out a bottle of lubricant, one of the smaller vibrators, and a pair of latex gloves.

"What have you got there?" Sherlock asked when he returned.

"None of your business. Face on the cushion, and don't move unless I tell you to."

Sherlock quivered as he obeyed.

"Hands stay where I can see them."

"Yes, Mycroft."

Sherlock's hips rutted slowly against the cushion. Mycroft planted a firm hand on his lower back. "None of that."

Sherlock stilled. "I… _like_ it when you order me about."

Mycroft smiled despite himself. "You could have fooled me."

"But only when my clothes are _off_."

Mycroft brought his palm down on that pale arse. The crack of hand against buttock was loud and gunfire-sharp. "You don't dictate to me."

"Hnngh." Sherlock's squirming became more enthusiastic. Mycroft seized his hair again, forcing his head up, and administered more spanks with his other hand. He knew that they were on the right track when Sherlock tensed, limbs locking tightly and face slack with bliss.

"Mmmm, feels so good. Please, harder."

Mycroft gave him one more swat that drove him into the sofa cushions and made him scream. A split second later, knuckles rapped on the door.

"Sir?" It was Anthea. "Is everything all right?"

Mycroft wiped sweat from his brow. "Yes, yes. That reminds me. Please hold all calls and tell any visitors to wait until I tell you otherwise."

"Yes, Sir."

When her footsteps receded, Mycroft hissed, "Not so loud!"

"Can't help it."

"Well, you'd better, because it's going to become more intense."


	5. Chapter 5

When Sherlock heard the latex gloves being snapped on, he tensed, but Mycroft easily detected eager anticipation. He ran a reassuring hand along his brother's flank anyway, admiring the redness that now colored those tight buttocks.

"You need more than wanking alone to come, Sherlock. That's atypical, I admit, but not unheard-of. Think of yourself as a cipher, and I'm helping you find the key. Now tell me: spanking brought you closer, didn't it?"

Dark curls bobbed as Sherlock nodded. "Yes, and ordering me about too. I'm wet and so fucking hard it hurts. You think John will do all this for me?"

Swallowing heavily, Mycroft smeared lube over the index and middle fingers of his right hand. "I think John Watson would commit murder to keep you happy. And if that turns you on, you are NOT leaving this office."

Sherlock laughed huskily before asking, "Why the gloves?"

It took a few seconds for Mycroft to trust his voice enough to answer. "Because your first lover is the only one who should do this to you without a barrier."

Kneeling again, and no longer caring about the wet patch dampening his trousers, Mycroft gently parted Sherlock's cheeks and pressed a slick finger to that tight pink entrance. Detecting tension, he stroked the muscle without trying to enter.

"Relax," he murmured. "You're too tense, and you've no reason to be."

Sherlock's head turned on the cushion. "Is this going to be painful?"

"What?" Mycroft stilled. "No, why?"

No answer.

"Sherlock, look at me. Now."

The younger man peered over his shoulder. Despite his lust-blown pupils, he was biting his lip so hard that the skin was in danger of breaking. Mycroft frowned: Sherlock relished being bitten and spanked hard, but penetration scared him?

"Sherlock, anyone who loves you will NEVER hurt you. Do you understand?" Trying to lighten the mood, he added, "Unless it's to give you the smacked arse you so richly deserve."

"I know. I'm being ridiculous. Too many prison dramas, thanks to John's odious telly habits. I should know I won't need an A&E visit afterward."

"I'll cut off the telly service if you like."

A smile. "Carry on. Please. It actually felt good before I spoiled it."

"You're sure?"

"Yes," Sherlock drawled in the same tone that he usually applied to those he considered thick-headed.

Mycroft laid one hand on Sherlock's lower back to soothe and steady him. Then he applied the pad of his finger to that clenched ring of muscle again, circling and stroking. When it relaxed, he pushed in to the first knuckle. Sherlock's body was superbly responsive: his thighs trembled and a guttural moan escaped into the cushion. Encouraged, Mycroft probed deeper, relishing the silky heat that felt exquisite even through the latex, gently applying lube to the virgin walls that quivered around his finger. His own arousal was so overwhelming that only his superhuman self-control kept his face placid and movements careful.

"Okay?"

"Mmm." Sherlock licked his lips. "That feels incredible."

"Let me add another. Deep breath and bear down. There you go…."

Mycroft slid both digits in until his knuckles were wedged between Sherlock's buttocks. "Ready to feel something exquisite?" Without waiting for an answer, he slowly withdrew partway, crooked his fingers at just the right angle, and pressed down.

Sherlock jerked as if electrocuted. His head shot up and his back arched so abruptly that the bones cracked in protest. His mouth fell open, but no noise came out.

Mycroft did it again, this time sliding his free hand under Sherlock's belly while teasing his prostate. His brother was still hard, and dripping so much that the latex covered hand easily stroked his length.

"Oooh," Sherlock whimpered. "That's so… so…." At a loss for words, he turned his head. Mycroft saw amazement and ecstasy in those normally cynical eyes.

"No suitable description for it, is there?" Mycroft scissored his fingers, gently stretching and loosening the muscle. Sherlock pushed back, making soft noises into the cushion as he fucked himself on those slippery, probing digits.

"Fuck, yes, My, right fucking THERE. Ohhh."

"Getting closer?"

"Oh God, yes."

"Touch yourself."

Sherlock reached beneath himself. His arm muscles pistoned as he stroked his flesh. "Getting there... just a bit more..."

Mycroft finally slid his fingers out, grinning when Sherlock whined in protest. "Shush now. If you thought that felt wonderful, you'll wonder where _this_ has been all your life."

Ignoring the fire that raged in his lower belly, he peeled off the gloves, picked up the vibrator, which had a flared base, and quickly applied a generous coating of lube. Then he pushed it into Sherlock's body and switched it on. He knew from personal experience that the device's design would concentrate the vibrations directly onto the younger man's prostate, making him lose his mind.

Sherlock squealed. His pelvis rolled upward and he started bucking wildly. "Mycroft, what the fuck, that's... that's-"

Seeing his little brother going berserk with pleasure, Mycroft's control broke. The Dom in him roared. Lips curled back and eyes blazing, he threw himself full-length on top of Sherlock, who was rolling on the leather cushions like an alligator. He snaked one arm around his brother's middle to avoid being bucked off and clamped the other hand over his mouth.

"Shut up and take it, little brother!" he hissed in Sherlock's ear before nipping the lobe. "Take every fucking inch of it." He ground his soaked crotch against Sherlock's arse, driving the vibrator deeper. The resulting friction was so heavenly that he sighed. "Oh God, you feel incredible beneath me. I hope John realizes what a treasure he has."

Sherlock panted, teeth brushing against his brother's palm. When Mycroft started pounding harder and biting his neck, the younger Holmes whimpered and tugged his erection more frantically. His other hand gripped the cushion until the knuckles lost all color.

"So good, isn't it?" Mycroft could feel Sherlock tensing beneath him. All the signs of upcoming orgasm were there: quickened breathing, full-body flush, and locking hip and thigh muscles. He just needed that one final push.

Snarling, Mycroft pressed down harder, forcing Sherlock's body deeper into the cushions. His own climax was imminent, and the primal need for release made him cruel. He tightened the hand over Sherlock's mouth, forcing the other man's head up, sank his teeth deep into one pale shoulder, and ground himself faster and harder against that writhing arse.

Sherlock let out a muffled wail and shuddered all over. Mycroft closed his eyes and groaned as he came in his trousers for the first time since he was thirteen.

After riding out their climaxes, the Holmes brothers laid there, the thick silence broken only by their laboured breathing. Mycroft released Sherlock's mouth and kissed the back of his neck. "You OK?" he whispered as he rose carefully to his knees, extracted the vibrator, and laid it on the coffee table.

Sherlock rolled onto his side. His curls stuck wetly to his forehead and cheekbones, and his lids were slack. "Look what you did to me, big brother," he smiled, voice tremulous with emotion. Both of them stared at the thick smears of ejaculate that covered his chest and belly. "It worked!"

Mycroft laughed, giddy with relief and affection. "Merry Christmas," he whispered, gathering Sherlock in his arms and holding him tight. He was exhausted and his clothes were ruined, but none of it mattered. "From now on, may it only get better."

* * *

><p>A truly grateful Sherlock left an hour later, anxious to buy a vibrator, lube, and other recommended toys before the shops closed. Mycroft showered in the private bathroom that adjoined his office, sent Anthea home (after tucking a generous bonus cheque in her Prada bag- another gift), and curled up in his desk chair, wrapped in a thick black bathrobe and sipping vintage Scotch.<p>

Gazing out the window at the heavily falling snow, he searched his conscience for any traces of guilt over what he'd done to his own baby brother. When he could find none, he smiled wearily, picked up the phone, and arranged to be punished anyway.

And much later, when the government building was silent, Mycroft Holmes leaned over his desk, long fingers pressed against the mahogany surface and robe hem bunched around his waist. Behind him, a shapely, sultry brunette paced, smacking a riding crop against her soft palm.

"Have you been wicked, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, Miss Adler," he answered. He closed his eyes, smiled contentedly, and waited for redemption.

END


End file.
